


The Asset’s Horrible, no Good, very Bad Week

by Elvesliketrees



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky is confused, Confusion, Dehumanization, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Torture, bucky pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvesliketrees/pseuds/Elvesliketrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Asset wakes up at the side of the Potomac and wonders. There are no more handlers, the Mission is a failure, there is nothing. Pain is irrelevant, maintenance is required for optimum functioning, and the Mission lies only a few feet away. More data needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Asset’s Horrible, no Good, very Bad Week

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first full one-shot into the fandom, so I hope I've done well! I've read some amazing fics on Bucky's POV, and I wanted to give it a wack. This can either be read as gen or implied Steve/Bucky. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you guys enjoy my first full Marvel one-shot!

Day 1:

          With a small hiss, the Asset opened its eyes to a very bright something. It blinked and flexed its limbs. Pain was irrelevant, but broken bones would inhibit optimum functioning. There was a twinge in its arm, a shifting in its ribs. Maintenance was required, but the Secretary was dead. He was dead, along with the handlers, the technicians, all things required for an Asset to function properly. Primary protocol stated that the Asset return to its handlers, but the handlers were dead. Should it go to the chair, a base perhaps? There would be others looking for it, looking for an Asset of their own, maybe Hydra was looking too. There was a groan beside it, and the Asset turned. The Mission mumbled something in his sleep, and the Asset looked around with wide eyes. The Mission had failed, the Asset was a failure. Failure resulted in…bad things. The Mission had called himself Steve, but he had also called it Bucky. What was a Bucky? Was it a Bucky? The Mission moaned again, and the Asset stopped. Blue eyes blinked open, and the Mission gasped.

          “Bucky?” the Mission groaned, the Asset thought that he smiled a little through the pain. The Asset shifted, was the Mission now its handler? Was Bucky the new designation? The Mission tried to rise, but groaned in pain instead. Primary protocol must be obeyed, primary protocol stated that the Asset was to return to its handlers. The Asset rose to its feet, and the Mission’s eyes widened. “Bucky! Bucky wait!” the Mission cried, now sounding a little breathless. The Asset turned away and walked into the trees, ignoring the cried words behind its back. Sirens were wailing down the road, and the Asset checked its surroundings. The trees were thick, but the police would surely comb them. No, better to go into the city. It limped along the tree line and watched as cars screeched by. None stopped for it.

It got into the city, Washington D.C. it thought it was called, and stopped in an alley that was near a rundown building. The Asset saw that the sky was getting dark. There were no handlers this time, no hotel floor to doze (never fully sleep) on or van to ride in the back of. The Asset found itself missing the van, sitting at the feet of its handlers, perhaps getting a crust of bread for a treat. The Asset remembered bread, a handler, Brock it thought, gave it a soft piece with a brown sticky substance clinging to the edges, it was wonderful. It found itself missing the ice, the numbingly warm nothingness that finally allowed it to rest. It even missed the hose, the jet of cold water pounding the tense muscles in its back. It didn’t miss the chair. The Asset curled up in the alley, using a blue thing to cover up its arm. It was very cold, shivering in the alley, and it wished for the ice, for its handlers.

Day 2:

          The Asset woke with a start. It looked up and saw a large male standing directly above it. He was attempting to go through the Asset’s pockets, though the Asset knew it did not have any currency. With a snarl, the Asset flung out its hand and made contact with the man’s nose. Bone crunched and blood spurted, and the Asset got into its fighting stance, a knife automatically resting in its palm. The man held up his hands and backed away, stuttering apologies and something about a buddy. He left his jacket and ball cap. Newly clothed, the Asset explored its surroundings. There were no handlers to direct it, no mission to fulfill, the Asset had failed.

The Asset found itself in a park, staring at white birds as they gathered on the ground. There were some who stopped to stare at the Asset as it watched the birds. They were such delicate things, capable of being crushed in a metal hand in an instant. The Asset had crushed many things in its hands. The Asset exited the park quickly after the flash of memory. It wandered around that day, and people gave it a wide berth. There was some hissed words, but they were irrelevant. The Asset stopped in front of a shop and looked at the televisions in the window, seeing the fight between it and the Mission on the highway. The Asset’s stomach grumbled, and it wished once again for the tubes that fed it. The Asset then saw the news, and the woman talked about the new Captain America exhibit to open on the next day. The Asset felt a small flare of what might be called hope, even if weapons felt no such things. The Mission had known the Asset, perhaps more data would be presented at this exhibit. The Asset returned to its alley and slept.

Day 3:

          When the Asset opened its eyes on the next day, it felt very weak. Sustenance was required, but no tubes presented themselves. Maintenance was required. The arm was still malfunctioning, and its ribs were still in pain. The Asset took a water bottle from an ignorant jogger and hydrated, making its way towards the Smithsonian. Once inside, the Asset was presented with data concerning the Mission. And also data concerning the Asset. Or was it designation Bucky? Was it still a Bucky? Had Bucky died, as it said here? Was it a replacement to the Bucky? Was that what the Mission had referred to? All data pointed to two options; the Asset was indeed designation Bucky, or the Asset was meant to replace Bucky. If it was the second, orders had been disobeyed. It (he?) had left its handler, one Captain Steven Grant Rogers. A weapon was not to be left unattended. The Asset exited the museum after being asked its status and proceeded to wander until its legs were shaky and malfunctioning.

Day 4:

          It had rained during the night, and the Asset woke soaked with water. The Asset felt a hitch in his breath and a wetness in his lungs. The Asset was not able to move all day due to its coughing.

Day 5:

          The Asset was jolted awake due to a pain in its ribs. It jerked awake and blinked. The sun was not yet risen, but above it stood one of its handlers.

          “On your feet!” he barked. Finally, the comforting bark of orders, of instruction, a weapon only needed to be told what to do. The Asset rose on malfunctioning legs and wrapped an arm around its ribs.

          “Malfunction in ribs and lungs, maintenance required,” it stated, and its voice was very grating. It coughed, and the man snarled. The Asset received a blow to the temple and was grasped by both arms.

          “Shut up!” the man hissed, and a woman helped the man with the Asset’s other side.

          “Why the hell are we even here?” she panted.

          “Orders from high up, apparently its valuable enough to get. We gotta get to base, orders were to get it and get the hell out,” the man replied, breathless. The Asset was tossed into the back of a van and ordered to lie still. No hydration was offered, and the tube did not make an appearance. The Asset had failed, something that was not acceptable in a good weapon. Weapons had malfunctions and failed, but Assets were not allowed such luxuries. There would be punishment, and then if it was lucky, the ice. It wanted the ice. There was a sting in its arm, and the Asset closed it eyes, wishing for ice to fog up a window.

Day Unknown:

          The Asset was cold, but it was not on ice. It did not know how long it had lain on the icy floor, only that it had been down here for a deal of time. Regression, withdrawal from the wipes, had begun. Flashes came more and more common, memories of a skinny man with a bright smile and a fierce tongue. He looked much like the Mission. The Asset was a Bucky, it knew that now, though it had changed much from the smiling man it was. He? Was it a he now? No, it would go back to the ice, be wiped, and it would become as it always was. A weapon.

          The Asset shifted and failed to keep back the weak whimper. It had disobeyed orders, it had failed, and the punishment it had received was deserved. It had taken much to undo the Asset’s damage. Its handlers had been required to fake Pierce’s death and spirit him into hiding, where he was still recovering. The Mission had failed, and the Mi-Steve, he was Steve now, it knew this, had exposed many agents. The Asset shifted and heard the creaking in his left arm. The metal had frozen in the cold, and much of the Asset’s body is blue. The Asset believes it might have frozen if not for its enhancements. There is not blanket now in its room, no socks or shoes, those luxuries are for weapons who do their job.  The Asset’s bones shifted, it worried they might heal badly if not set soon. There are footsteps, and the Asset wonders if they will splash it with hot water again, setting its bones aflame. It braces itself, it must be good.

          One of the handlers walks in (Brock has been arrested, there will be no more Brock) and yanks its hair. The Asset is dragged along the halls until it spots the chair. It is shivering now, whether from the cold or from fear it does not know. Steve will be gone, memories of a smile, a brush of a hand against its (his), of a man with a big mustache and booming laugh, and a man with a red beret and a British accent. It is dropped in the chair, and it snarls, the technician backs up, and the handler orders some restraints. Before they can secure its arms, the Asset (Bucky) throws out its (his) metal arm. There are yells, and the Asset leaps out of the chair. It snaps the neck of the handler, snarling, and it grabs his gun. A bullet dispatches the technician, a punch another soldier. There is a pop, and the Asset’s stomach is on fire. It cries out, despites its best efforts, and it manages to throw off another soldier. There is another pop, and this time it takes a bullet to the thigh. It drops down, and it wonders if it will die this time. Perhaps that would not be so bad, though it wishes for a moment that it could have told Steve, told Steve that there are tiny flashes. Perhaps he could, in time, be a Bucky. He, for the first time he’s convinced that he’s a “he”, closes his eyes and prays that maybe, perhaps, he’ll get to sleep. Yes, he’ll sleep, and he die as a he. He thinks he sees a shooting star, bright red and round, as he closes his eyes. He wishes he could be a Bucky.

Day Unknown:

          The Asset comes back to himself and is confused. There are hands on him now. Not hard hands, manipulating his arm and his uniform, or cruel ones that dump hot water on a cold body, or indifferent ones, spaying him down with a hose. No, there is a hand clasped in his, and there is a hand running gently through his hair, not pulling, not even one little bit. There is something warm wrapped about him, and he’s floating in the air. He’s warm for the first time in God only knows how long, and the pain is a dull blur in his mind. The hand finds a knot, and the Asset prepares for the yanking, but there is only a soft curse and a gentle pulling.

          “Sorry Buck,” a voice whispers, and the Asset is startled to hear the voice of the Mis-Steve. The Asset exhales and wills himself not to push up into the beautifully wonderful touch. Of course, that’s what he does first. “B-Buck?” Steve whispers, and the Asset squeezes the large hand in his. There’s a wet laugh, and the Asset blinks heavy eyes open. Steve is leaning over him, and he gives the man a small smile.

          “Steve?” he rasps, and the man gives him a brilliant smile.

          “You remember?” Steve asks, hope barely restrained in his eyes.

          “I thought you were smaller,” the Asset rasps, and Steve gives out a small sob. Suddenly, the Asset is in strong arms, being clasped hard enough to make his bones give a small twinge. There’s a hand rubbing up and down his back, and for the first time in a while, his frozen heart thaws a little. First one tear, and then another slips down his cheek. Steve gives a throaty sob, and then there’s no stopping the tears. Many tears and many reassurances later, they both ease away from one another. Steve fusses and there is a hot soup, bursting with flavor and warmth in his mouth. He thinks that he maybe sheds a few tears over that fact. While he eats, Steve talks, he talks and he talks and he talks. They’ve found Pierce (the Asset wonders for a moment who “they” is) and he’s in the custody of the government. Brock Rumlow talked while the Asset was at the base, and the Asset has been given a full pardon by the government.

          When Steve has run out of words and the Asset has run out of soup, Steve suggests a bath (“You oughta see the bathrooms Tony’s got Buck, they’re large as our space back in Brooklyn!”). He is lifted from his bed, bandages are changed, and Steve sets him gently in warm water. Instead of using a brush or steel wool, Steve uses a soft cloth. The Asset pretends not to notice when the cloth pauses before it goes over his scars. When every inch of him is clean, Steve combs out his hair and helps him towel off. The arm is gone, Steve mentions something about a Stark and supposed travesties and trackers, but it’s far from his mind.  When Steve gently climbs into the large bed with him (after being invited of course), strong arms wrap around him and pull him close to a broad chest. There’s a contented sigh and Steve pulls him closer. Finally, the question that the Asset has been debating on over these seven days rises from his throat.

          “Steve?” he whispers. There’s a curious hum behind him, and the Asset takes that as permission to continue. “Am I a Bucky?” he asked with an appalling degree of hesitance. Perhaps his shooting star (though it looked something more like a shield) came through.

          “Bucky, y-you’re you, you’ve _always_ been Bucky,” Steve whispers.

          “We’re not the same,” the As-Bucky, he must be Bucky now, replies.

          “Never asked ya to be, I’m not the same either,” Steve observes softly. The arms clasper still tighter, as if he would be stupid enough to run off during the night, and Steve’s breathing evens out. Perhaps these last seven days have not been so bad after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading, comments and feedback are appreciated!


End file.
